When I look in women’s motorcycling groups and on dedicated pages online, it looks like a lot of ladies are at a loss when it comes to picking women’s leather motorcycle jackets, and even more so when it comes to trousers. I’m certainly a proponent of ATGATT (All The Gear All The Time) within reason, and leather clothing can do a lot for a motorcyclist in the event of a crash, but what not a lot of people know, is that if it fits correctly, leather gear can actually support you while riding. Let’s take a look at how to choose and how to buy for fit rather than for fashion.
When I got my hands on the Royal Enfield Continental GT 650 for the Petrolettes Wrench-Off I was sure something needed to be done with the clutch, stator and valve covers, although I wasn't quite sure what. The initial plan was to cold-blue them with some gun bluing fluid, but a whim, at 11 pm one night made me click purchase on Amazon, having the Dremel tool delivered to my door the very next day.
Not so long ago, in a land not so very far away, Loki was running as fast as he could.
He was nearly out of breath and his side started to hurt, yet he didn't stop, he couldn't. That morning, he had the fine idea of chopping Thor's wife's hair clean off, leaving Thor furious and his wife in tears. As these things usually turn out, Loki now was in immediate risk of death by lightning, if he couldn't make this right by nightfall.
Aaron always suspected that as you got older, the world would just naturally tend to lose it’s magic. He remembered the first time he got any real proof of his theory…
Dust. Dust is the ever-present, ever penetrating reality of this world. It’s all covered in dust: the old buildings, the old cars, the old, dead forests. All of it, just dust. On a good day, there are a couple of sunny hours, maybe in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon.
There was no Whole Foods at Swindon, there was a Waitrose & Partners and a Tesco. Things were Great, and Royal and old timey, and most places had names before they had names, and people counted things in twelves. The flannel, bearded folk was also here, some sporting intricately designed, hand printed, organic cotton T-shirts. So did we.
Most importantly, it was outside London’s commuter belt, a Kuiper Belt of human asteroids and comets, ever bombarding the towns with people, drawn into the orbit of London’s megalopolis as if it were the Sun. They made it impossible for little satellite towns to have a life of their own. That’s why Mars doesn’t have life, you know, too many meteorites.
They all had them, these stories.
Wayward Motorcycles LLC was by no means a fancy endeavour. As was its owner, Wayland. The plucky little motorcycle shop sat on Franklin street, between Duckfat Sandwich shop and the Whole Foods.
It was a clear, warm, spring day and the birds were singing, butterflies fluttering through the air, many of them getting smashed into the headlights and air intakes of passing bikes.